Labyrinth
by emerald1198
Summary: In the aftermath of the calamity that was her senior year, Katie Matlin struggles to figure out whom she owes, what still matters to her, and how she's ever going to move on from here. Six-part fic.
1. Saturn's Rings

It's kind of funny how things have turned out.

A bitter, scornful snicker is bubbling on the end of Katie's tongue. All she can think to do anymore is to laugh – and laugh and laugh. And, maybe, wake up. C'mon Subconscious, get a move on with this dream. She has an AP Chemistry exam tomorrow, not to mention her first practice with the Team.

She can wait a little longer, she guesses. Because, for Bianca DeSousa over there, this is probably a lovely dream. After all the shit she's been through, maybe that girl deserves a little taste of happiness – even if, in the morning, that smile on her face will slump into a scowl, and she'll remember that she's made every mistake a human can make and then some. She'll remember that she's a No-One and Katie Matlin's a Some-One. And their worlds don't clash. Because, if that happened, the planets would spontaneously combust, and tiny, green Martians floating around in space would gawk with their three eyes as a black hole appeared and slurped up Pluto, preparing to digest the whole solar system. And they would throw all six of their hands up and shout at that big landmass on Earth. "You couldn't keep your cool for senior year? Really, Katie? You couldn't just avoid her? Is Drew Torres really that cute?"

And, if the universe was digested by a hungry black hole, then Katie would never be a famous journalist or an accomplished college athlete.

So, clearly, this is a dream. Because, if this was the real world, the sky would be black, the sun gone, and the atmosphere filled with the sound of distant Martians grumbling their complaints. Those poor citizens of Mars. They've barely had a chance to recover from the last black hole when a No-One and a Some-One clashed over on Saturn.

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Through her system, five little disintegrated tablets of Advil are floating. Tiny white swirls of cheap, over-the-counter pills are twirling around in her crimson blood right now. If she were to cut one of her veins open, it would probably look like Dollar General Christmas wrapping paper spilling out of her wrist. The back of the bottle told her to take two – and that was pushing it. 140 pounds equals two tablets. But that's give or take a few pounds, right? A few can mean twenty, right?

Whatever. She took five. And the world is blurry – like fog on glass.

Is this how Bianca feels when she goes out and gets high at clubs? Can she compare her vision to looking out of a car window during a road-trip through Washington? Has Bianca DeSousa ever been to Washington? Does she have a family willing to take her there?

Maybe she's lucky if she can't – hasn't – doesn't. It rains too much in Washington. The whole state is one big medieval labyrinth, green and mossy and impossible to find your way out of. And the sky is suffocating; it hangs too close to the ground, breathing over your shoulders. She thought she saw the sun peeking through the heavy clouds once when she was there, but it turned out to be the headlights of the Martians' UFOs. She's pretty sure they flipped her off, but, obviously, it was hard to tell. You know, since Martians have seven fingers.

Hmm. Well, it all makes sense now. Maybe, those small, green creatures can see the future. Maybe, they knew she would be the one to send their whole universe tumbling into the next black hole.

Uh-oh. The sky is turning black. The sun is nowhere to be seen. And – God, no – she can hear the petulant grumbles of the Martians. _Meh-meh-shwii-shwii-damnit, Katie Matlin._ It looks as if this might be reality after all.

Either that, or she's somehow been transported to Washington.

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Let's establish something right now. Katie Matlin does _not_ have an addiction. Not to anything but musty newspaper print and raspberry chocolate truffle ice cream – and that's only if it's Haagen-Dazs.

It turns out, though, that each is a very serious medical diagnosis. Her parents decide it is best to pull her out of school – just for a little while. She won't miss much, they promise. Only midterms, and no one gives a shit about those anyway.

She spends six and a half hours each day stroking her fingers over the velvety pages of worn newspapers and is forced to stare blankly at articles. No reading them, Child. Bad Katie.

Only one spoon full of ice cream per day. If her hand even flinches toward the spoon in the slightest, it is slapped away. No, Miss Matlin. Compose yourself. Have a little self-control.

You used to have a lot of _that_, remember?

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Once, she woke up in the middle of the night to find the television bright and muted, and, half-asleep, she turned the volume up. For about ten minutes before fading back into the world of the drowsy, she watched some corny, low-budget film play out over the 3 a.m. screen. It was about two girls, a drama queen and a tomboy, whose minds became trapped in each other's bodies.

A knock-off of Freaky Friday, really.

One of the girls was played by some actress that is somewhat famous nowadays. Katie can't remember who it is. Probably one that doesn't get along too well with Lindsay Lohan.

Anyway, Katie thinks something like this might have happened between her and Bianca. Sure, she still has the same golden hair and blue eyes – and she still comes home to the same parents and little sister. She certainly hasn't found herself out on the streets trying to decipher weed from oregano.

But something awfully weird _is_ going on. Because, suddenly, that curly-haired girl with her fiery eyes and smoky throat is spending her time between bells surrounded by friends, her lunch periods surrounded by textbooks and college applications, and her free periods surrounded by Drew Torres and the sound of their smacking lips.

So, while Katie might not be in the clutches of a sadistic gang member or covered in Adam Torres's blood, Bianca's new life sure seems to resemble Katie's old one.

Maybe, something went wrong in the switcheroo process, and Bianca was safely transported into Katie's world – but Katie's portal broke down, and now she's floating around aimlessly through space.

She better hurry up and reverse this quick. Before the Martians probe her.

Well, fuck. She hasn't been to any Chinese Restaurants lately.

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Lately, I've been thinking about Katie Matlin's character – really, truly thinking. I know she's not particularly a favored character and that, for many, her storylines are boiling down to disappointment. But I think there's a lot there to ponder, a lot underneath that may or may not be explored by the show.

**I don't expect this to be the most popular fanfic I've ever written, but, if you are reading, I'd really appreciate it if you would offer some feedback or simply let me know you're reading with a favorite or an alert (if you have an account).**

**Thanks so much to anyone taking the time to view my work.**

**This will most likely be a piece with maybe five chapters, give or take a few.**


	2. Detour

Thanks for the favorites, alerts, and review.

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Christmas break is nearing its end. She's a new Katie – she promises, Mom and Dad. _Really_, she's fine. It turns out that newspapers are long and boring, and raspberry chocolate truffle ice cream starts to taste tart and sour if you leave it on your tongue for too long.

That part of her life is over now.

She's decided to focus on healthier goals. Like swallowing five pills at once. Or keeping as quiet as possible when she throws up in the girl's bathroom. She's managed to work out a routine that sounds more like coughing than puking. It's a little messier than her old method, but it's really working for her. Helping her to get her life back on track, you know.

She hasn't figured out a way to reverse the voodoo magic yet. So, Bianca DeSousa is still dancing in the school plays and exchanging nail polish with Katie's friends and sucking faces with Drew Torres (and who _knows_ what else). Katie's not all that worried, though, because these movies always play out right in the end. What was it they had to do in Freaky Friday? Show selfless love?

Well, she's waiting fancy movie writers. Open for any suggestions.

Meanwhile, her teachers want her to make up midterms. As it turns out, people actually do give a shit about them.

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K.C. Guthrie is tutoring her. He's a junior. She's a senior.

When she asked him for help, he blinked twice – waited for a punch line – swallowed once, and finally nodded in a daze. She looked at her shoes when she thanked him.

Her parents are suspicious. They make her keep her bedroom door open when K.C. comes over for study sessions. The joke's on them, really. Katie doesn't see anything in the football jock – but their fourteen-year old daughter sure does. Katie's room is the last one in the upstairs hallway; you don't walk by it unless you need Clorox from the cleaning supply closet at the very end of the passage. Let's just say Maya's been offering to help with the scrubbing of the kitchen floor an awful lot nowadays.

And she always waits for the time that, according to Maya, the sun will shine brightest through the shutters and onto her glistening tile floors. Six to eight on Mondays and Wednesdays. When Maya makes this claim, Katie chokes on her water, coughs for ten seconds, and finally, swallowing back snickers, asks her sister if the sun rises on Tuesdays, too. Maya glares daggers at her all through dinner.

Their parents don't catch on. The floors are only shiny on Mondays and Wednesdays.

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She gets C's on the Chemistry and Statistics midterms, scrapes by with a D on the Spanish one, and, somehow, lands an A in English. She missed a quarter of the impeded grammatical error section, but Miss Dawes says her two essays were so "off-the-charts" that she had to award her extra points.

One was a persuasive paper on Euthanasia, the other an informational one on something that keeps her mind as ease. She thought about writing it on soccer. In the end, she wrote about looking out of foggy windows in Washington.

Mrs. Dawes asked Katie if she was looking for any more credits. She could use a mind like Katie's in the elective creative writing class. In a moment of haze, Katie declines – she manages the newspaper staff during that period. It isn't until she passes Clare Edwards between bells that she remembers that she's no longer the president of the school paper. She stopped showing up to meetings, and the short, blue-eyed junior took over her position.

When that happened, Katie nearly stormed into the classroom, preparing to reclaim her well-earned position, but – No! Bad Katie. Don't you remember anything that they taught you in rehab? Newspapers are long and boring.

Are you _trying _to relapse?

Next period, she takes a detour on her way to Spanish and accepts Miss Dawes' offer. Having taken Journalism I,II, and III, Katie doesn't know the first thing about writing things from her own mind, but she's just happy to have at least one teacher who doesn't look at her with pity-filled, disappointed eyes.

The class is small. She wrote an article last semester about the electives Degrassi was considering eliminating, and she remembers that Creative Writing was right up there on the list. Apparently, they've managed to scrape by. As long as Eli Goldsworthy – who lit a script on fire last year and was recently diagnosed with bipolar disorder – is in the class, Simpson will leave it alone, Katie's sure.

Eli sits in the corner next to Imogen Moreno. Imo, as he calls her, is a really small girl with dark brown hair that she pulls into pigtails, dark make-up lined by thick-rimmed glasses, and a quirky wardrobe made up of polka-dotted nylons, black lace-up boots, and bedazzled denim jackets.

Katie avoids her venomous gaze for the most part, but, every once in awhile, she forces herself to meet it – and to back down from it – because Katie deserves it. What she did to Imogen and her girlfriend, Fiona – who, thank God, takes Sewing and Fabrics this period – was not fair. She likes to think that one day she'll offer them both a sincere apology.

But let's be honest. Add them to the list, right?

_We'll try to get you in, Miss Moreno and . . . Coyne, is it? I'm afraid there are parties ahead of you. Miss Matlin still needs to meet with Miss Edwards to apologize for making the second half of her sophomore year hell. Oh, and then there's Mr. Torres for, out of arrogance and shallowness, leading him on, rejecting him, and moving right on to his older brother. _

_ And then there's the big meeting with Miss DeSousa. That, I'm afraid, may take the boss awhile. It was a deal gone horribly wrong; she's focusing all her energy on trying to salvage the pieces of that agreement._

_ I'm not sure when we'll be able to fit you in, but you can take a seat over there next to the other clients._

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Marisol has stopped asking her to hang out. "You need to get your life back together, Katie," her – possibly former now – best friend had said, "It's not too late, you know. If you work hard, you'll end up with B's in most of your subjects – and, besides, all the colleges know that senior year is the one that everybody screws up. You're boss at soccer, you're the best journalist I know, and you've got a nice ass – all that'll get you somewhere in life, Katie."

That was a few weeks ago. Katie knows she's right (maybe even about the nice ass part), but the thing is, she's so _tired._ And she's not even _doing_ anything anymore. It's like one of those strange times in life when you're working so hard that the moment you take a break, you realize that you can't even get up again.

Only stronger. Much, much stronger – because she's exhausted in every sense you can be. Her stomach feels stretchy. It aches with the need for fuel but churns every time she attempts to keep food down. And her ambition is tired. College seems light-years away, just like it did in elementary school, and journalism seems useless – because does anyone in the whole damn world actually read a whole article?

It all seems pointless to her now.


	3. Torrents

Thanks for the reviews, the favorites, and the alerts.

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She's mastered the cough-puke method by now. She no longer shakes in fear every time she goes into the bathroom, terrified that someone may walk in or overhear from the hallway. Sometimes, if the day's lunch has been small – a bag of cheese curls or a Twinkie – and she knows it will only last ten seconds, she'll even throw up when there's another girl in one of the stalls.

And, maybe, she's not all that scared of someone finding out anymore.

By the time she leaves the bathroom, the bell has just rung, announcing sixth period. Her breath is minty, her eyelids heavy, and her stomach stretchy as ever. They say that when you're dizzy the room spins, but it doesn't really. Because, for Katie right now, it's blurring out around the edges and somehow falling down at a slant away from her. She wishes it would spin. Unlike Maya, she always kept her cool on those carnival rides from their childhood – the ones that would spin them and lift them and drop them.

Then again, she has a weaker stomach nowadays.

She stumbles out into the mainstream hallway –

And knocks full-head-on-force with another girl.

Katie hits the ground first, but the other, slightly shorter – she thinks – student, comes right after her. Papers scatter the floor, and the contents of Katie's purse – the Nano iPod that she pins to her sports bra when she runs on the treadmill in gym, a few individually-wrapped breath mints, and three lead pens – sprawl out over granite tiles, creating a mixture of the clinking of metal and the shuffling of plastic wrap.

Katie, disregarding her own mess, instantaneously reaches for the pile of papers soon to be trampled by the oncoming herd of football players (plus Adam Torres).

In her muddled vision, she has to reach a farther distance than the papers seem to be away from her, but eventually, her fingers curl around them and sweep them out of harm's way in just the right time. Owen accidentally steps on her pinkie finger. "Sorry, Katie!" He calls over his brawny, padded shoulder.

His cleat has chipped the yellow nail polish.

Finally, Katie looks up to meet the eyes of her next apology client, and – whoops! – it's someone already in the waiting room. The startled-doe, blue eyes of Clare Edwards are gazing back at her. "I'm so sorry, Katie!" She says – _pleads – _reaching for the closest spearmint Lifesaver.

Somehow, Katie's mint-fresh throat that she has just splashed buckets of water down gets uncannily dry. "I'll buy you a new shirt. I'll buy you _three_ new shirts," the wide-eyed junior wails, pawing at Katie's shoulder where Katie now realizes is a bit damp from a half-opened bottled water Clare had been carrying.

Her secretary is chirping in her mind. _"Miss Matlin! We have a client claiming you owe her two apologies now. I think we should bump her to the front of the list! Miss Matlin?"_

Her throat is dry.

And then comes a voice she's never heard before.

A curt snap. "It's _fine, _Clare." Her lips are numb; she isn't in control of them.

The younger girl, humiliated and still utterly apologetic, leans back and swallows hard before gathering her papers and standing up. And, while Clare may not realize it, she's towering over Katie right now. Her trembling fingers are clutching at the jumbled pile of newspaper articles that Katie used to manage, and in her next class, she has a boyfriend waiting for her with a smile and comforting arm to wrap around her shoulder. Eli will probably brush his thumb over her now crimson cheeks, and Clare will realize that 'who, the hell, cares what Katie Matlin thinks of her?' Especially now. Now that Katie's whole world has boiled down to nothing.

"I'm sorry, Katie," Clare murmurs one last time before slipping around the corner and disappearing down the hall.

And Katie just sits there in her little pile of breath mints and illegally downloaded songs. The halls are deserted, excepting the few last-five-seconds stragglers. She's still slumped against the wall, at least two minutes from her World History class, when the bell sounds through the halls.

She pushes herself up and stumbles into the bathroom again just in time for the tears. Her slanted vision is starting to glisten with water now.

And the sobs claw their way up from her throat like wild animals. She clutches the side of the sink and stares into the mirror, and she watches eyeliner-colored tears stream down the face of a stranger. She listens to the unfamiliar girl's cries.

They don't sound like the ones Katie cried last year when she sprained her ankle on the soccer field. Or the ones that came when her dog, Wink, died three years ago. They're anguished and lost and broken, and Katie hates that when she hears them, the first thing she thinks about is the night she and Drew watched the quivering back of a curly-haired, fiery-eyed girl clutching a gun in a black alleyway.

Hates it because she doesn't ever want to turn out like that.

And hates it because she has no right to compare her problems to that.

She slides away from the mirror's reflection rays, sinking to the ground and closing her eyes tighter than she ever has before in her life. The darkness behind her lids is static, filled with her uneven sobs and watery with her tears – and she feels like she's cooped up in her shiny new car Mom and Dad bought her for Christmas, slouched up in the middle, front seat while torrents of rain run down the glass around her.

And she can't see outside. She can't see anything but a blur of colors, smearing and melting in the storm. Maybe, they can see her a little bit, though. Maybe, they can make out the outline of a girl with her arms wrapped around her knees, alone and scared of the thunder in the distance.

This isn't her. It never used to be.

She can't remember when someone else took over her body – a Katebot rolling around on a broken wheel. Intake little white capsules. Carry on. This load is nothing.

Exhaust cheese curls and dignity.

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Her little, chirping secretary has quit. Katie doesn't blame her. What self-respecting figment of the imagination wants to work for a girl with slanted vision and minty-vomit breath?

Katie's thoughts are quiet now. She didn't realize it was possible to get any more tired, but, as it turns out, her mind has been going a mile a minute since rehab. Just like her body, with it's stretchy stomach and splintering migraines, couldn't start working again once it sat down, her mind, once frantic and spinning, can't seem to wind up again now that she's spent a few days in silence.

She and Marisol talk on the way to homeroom. Only it's not really a conversation. Marisol asks how she's doing, and Katie tells a lie – that both she and Marisol know is present – but Mar smiles anyway. Katie's – once, a long time ago – best friend has always been good at talking, but now, Marisol's dark brown eyes lace the ground a few steps ahead of her; she stutters a bit and sometimes even begins to say something before stopping all together. Her words are being stifled somewhere along the road to Katie.

And, in the end, Marisol doesn't invite her to sit with the other girls in homeroom. Even though Katie had thought she might.


	4. Chernobyl

Imogen Moreno shrieks in Chemistry.

It's a short, shrill noise that sends a jolt through Katie's wrist as she studies a beaker filled with the solution.

Two tables away, the small girl with her heart-shaped face and dark-rimmed glasses is squealing, her skinny legs tangling together as she tries to decide between stumbling away or towards the disaster. On the table, a small beaker is bubbling over in foam that pops and flickers like smoldering ashes of a fire. Except these flames have just ignited.

The green, soap-looking solution boils over the edges of the beaker, coating Imogen's hands and pooling into a puddle on the countertop before streaming to the edge of the table where it follows a thin line down the side of the cabinets. Gas fumes are swaying off towards the cracked windows. A mini Chernobyl.

A few bubbles pop onto Imogen's white shirt and soak into the fabric, creating a sickly, green stain on her chest. A few guys chuckle because of where the mark is. Three girls in the back are beyond themselves with petty giggling.

Leah, a quiet girl that sits by the door, stands up to go alert Mr. T who has left the room to make copies of a homework assignment.

"No!" Imogen pleads after her, but the door is already wrapping back around. "I can't afford another screw-up in this class! My grade is already plummeting!"

Leah hasn't heard her.

The fumes are flickering away, the bubbles watering down, and Imogen swipes the handle of the faucet with her elbow and scrubs her red, irritated skin under steaming water and cheap soap. She dabs a hot, melting paper towel at the stain on her breast and curses under her breath when the effort does nothing but leave scattered pieces of soaked scraps on her shirt.

It's a weird, Imogen curse. "Shit-shit-shit-it-ty-_shit_!"

No one moves to help her. Not even when she bumps the glass beaker off the table and watches in exasperation as it smashes to smithereens on the tile-ground. "Ugh!" She groans animatedly, clutching both her hands into slow-motion fists like characters on TV.

"Miss Moreno!" Mr. T is standing in the doorway of the room. His countenance flickers from surprise to anger to fear, and the forty-year old man with a sweater-vest and a green and yellow striped tie scurries over to help the girl wipe up the mess.

Leah shrinks back into her seat by the door. Katie can tell she's glad to be back in her corner. Her little nook where her only duties are to "please turn off the lights, Leah" or "please, shut the door."

Mr. T studies Imogen's red hands, hesitates, and finally deems them unharmed. Mr. T sweats a lot. He always has, all four years Katie has had him. Directly under the light now, evident are the little beads of perspiration on the bridge of his nose and the bottom of his lip. "Would you care to explain what happened here, Miss Moreno?" He glares at her with eyes that seem crooked behind his glasses.

Imogen nudges her own up the bridge of her nose, pushes her hair back behind her ears, and bites her lip.

Katie watches her own fingers drum over the table in a tiny wave. Watches as if she isn't controlling them.

"Well?" Another demand from the pit-stained, crooked-eyed man.

"It was my fault, Sir." Sometimes, her voice sounds different. She can't really explain it. Like echoes, maybe, distant and close at the same time – in two different shades.

It's funny how Mr. T, after all this time, hasn't overheard at least one whisper in the Teacher's Lounge or wondered why her grades have slipped dramatically or even just listened to the announcements bouncing off the hallways. Hasn't even realized that Marisol, the girl with the loudest voice in all of Degrassi, is the one doing the talking now. The Vice President turned President.

Nevertheless, the Chemistry teacher's jaw drops when he she steps from behind her table. And she's not even exaggerating; just like Imogen resembled a cartoon character with her slow-motion fists, Mr. T's chin might as well be resting on the green, soapy floor beneath him.

_"Katie?"_ Not Katie Matlin. Never Katie Matlin. She can do no wrong.

White is pooling behind Imogen's already pale cheeks. She gapes, her black-lined eyes wide and startled and bewildered all at once.

"I was fooling around when you left, and I knocked over some of the sodium chloride. I don't know what happened."

Mr. T sputters, gripping the edge of the counter, and, while Katie doesn't think this is the case, it almost seems like he's doing it to support himself – as if the news is making his knee caps buckle in.

Her Chemistry teacher is in a daze when he writes up her detention slip. His hand moves numbly over the paper, leaving a messy, ink signature scrawled in its path. "Um, don't let it happen again, Katie."

The way he says it, the words sound like a question.

She nods and feels Imogen Moreno's gaze burning into her cheek for the rest of the period.

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Fiona Coyne isn't as tall as Katie has always thought. Maybe, it's because Imogen, who in reality is one of the smallest girls in the school, is always paired at Fiona's side.

At any rate, she's a little less intimidating.

Her eyebrows hang low when she confronts Katie in the hallway; they shape her face and cast shadows over her stormy, blue irises – but, nevertheless, her eyes are soft. Bewildered and a tad suspicious – but still soft.

"You know, this doesn't make up for everything," she breaths, and it's not harsh or bitter. The words are nothing but truthful.

One thing Fiona Coyne doesn't say, though, is that it doesn't make up for _anything. _And, perhaps, in this case, "everything" means the same as "anything."

Because it only took one moment for the possibility of friendship to shatter between these two girls. Only one incident to set flames between them. And you can't extinguish just part of a fire.

"I know."

So, maybe this makes up for nothing at all. Maybe, Katie will continue to back down from Eli and Imogen's icy stares in Creative Writing. Still, she doesn't regret anything. The crumpled up detention slip in her hand sends tingles through her veins. It makes her feel more alive.

Instead of the Katebot she's been for too long now.

"Then why'd you do it?" There's a hint of genuine curiosity laced through the girl's voice. Indifference is never an absolute shield.

Katie shrugs. "Because Imogen deserved a break, and at the rate I'm going downhill, one detention isn't going to make much of a difference."

A grin tugs at the edges of Fiona's glossy lips. "You know, screwing your life up isn't as bad as they make it out to be. Trust me."

With those words, the world clears up just a little bit. Her vision is still blurry and slanted, but it's manageable. Because, true to her A English paper, foggy windows do keep her mind at ease – and, maybe, that's irrational and foolish and even life course-altering. But once this haze passes over, perhaps she'll see the world even clearer than she used to.

And not _everything_ has fallen into place. Not _everything_ is dying down.

But Katie's pretty sure something is.


	5. Quiet, Little Clang

** Sorry this is such a late update. I've had a busier schedule than usual these past few weeks. Anyway, here's Part 5. There will most likely be only one more chapter.**

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She hears Maya crying through the thin drywall separating their rooms. It's a choked-back, strained kind of crying – the sort that sets your throat on fire. Katie used to swallow back those sobs, but now, it seems to be either full-force water works or a numb feeling that brings with it no tears.

It's better that way, though. The second Matlin daughter is crying sobs that will chip away at her heart. If anyone, Katie knows that you can't last a lifetime crying like that.

A crash breaks up the silent tears. An angry, frustrated shriek follows – and then another crash.

"Maya!" Katie slides from the cushion of her bed, her voice shaking as it echoes down the hallway. She trips rounding the corner, swears too loud, and limp-skips her way to the next door on the left.

The hall is eerily silent now. "Maya?" She whispers into the hardwood of the closed door. Her voice is raspy; it sounds like Bianca's does – did – whenever she talked to Katie after having a smoke.

"Go away," her little sister mutters from inside. It's a cold, bitter snap.

But Katie gently pushes the door open anyway, because that's what big sisters are supposed to do, isn't it? Not once in the movies does someone just "go away" when one of these scenes comes up.

The minute she's able to catch a glimpse of the destruction, two bony arms are on her stomach attempting to push her back through the doorway. Maya might be skinny as a rail, but her daily cello sessions do wonders for her triceps. "I said go away," she hisses icily.

And it's almost enough to physically remove Katie from the room, but even though she hasn't picked up a soccer ball since the fall, her abs are still rock solid and her legs still firm enough to remain planted to the dusty carpet of Maya's room.

"You're not getting rid of me until you tell me what's up."

Maya stops pushing on her stomach and glares up, studying Katie with hard eyes. They tremble for a moment before breaking all together, a defeated glaze pouring into her irises, and limply, Katie's sister drops her arms.

Katie leads Maya to the white-sheeted bed in the corner, sitting down and patting the mattress beside her. It's a blind move, really; it's been years since Katie's given her sister advice or asked her what was wrong. In fact, it's been years since she's even suspected something to be wrong.

She'd like to think that Maya is merely an easy-going kind of girl, but with the way she's suddenly breaking down, Katie finds it hard to believe that there haven't been other nights when the midnight breeze concealed her misery.

It's funny – well, not funny – that the first time in years that Katie is offering sisterly advice, she, herself, is a complete wreck. She's never been particularly good with words, but now anything and everything she says will be hypocrisy.

"I hate the cello," Maya hisses, and Katie follows her little sister's bitter glance to the chipped-in, broken string instrument in the corner.

"Maya!" She gasps, racing over to the cello, "Why did you – how – what, the hell happened?"

Maya shrugs, her eyes glazed over. "I just threw it," she whispers, "I threw it because I don't want it anymore."

"Are you okay?" The girl's eyes are miles away, hollow and eerily indifferent. The look is enough to twist Katie's stomach over.

Her sister gives her a bitter look. "What about you, Katie?" She snaps, "Are you okay? Because you're not acting like it."

Katie is speechless.

"And let me ask you this," Maya continues venomously, "Why'd you wait this long to screw your life up? Huh? If you were going to throw it all away in the end, why'd you spent this much time being the perfect one?"

Katie is stunned silent under the tearful, beady eyes of her sister. For some stupid reason, all she can really think to say is, "I don't know."

Maya lets out an incredulous huff. "You're leaving it all up to me now, aren't you?"

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The first bell has yet to ring when she slips into the dimly lit girl's bathroom. Tiny beads of sweat are forming on the ring of skin between her rolled up shorts and Nike tank-top. Her Nano iPod – along with its one hundred illegally downloaded songs – is pinned to the hemline. Its earphones, echoing distant cries of Lifehouse's leading bass, dangle at her waist.

Ever since the poor little gadget lay wounded on the mint-scattered tile floor two days ago, it has yet to turn off right away. It's funny, too, because Apple's products have always been indestructible. Marisol dropped her iPhone into the lake up at Jake's cabin last summer, and it had remained tangled in the seaweed and sod for nearly twenty minutes before Drew finally retrieved it.

The screen was cloudy, but, after a slightly delayed pause, a white Apple icon had appeared much to Mar's relief.

How could such a delicate little tumble, a quiet little clang, cause so much damage?

As if to redeem itself, the music dies away, and Katie is left with the silence of Degrassi before classes begin. Simpson is here, she's sure, and probably a few groggy janitors and some scattered students studying for tests in the library.

Her stomach churns rather uncomfortably, and she shrugs off her purse and unsnaps her Nano iPod. It's a quiet morning for the cough-puke process; perhaps, she ought to take her old approach – just this once.

She scrubs her hands under itchy soap and scalding water and rubs her finger together until they're velvety. In the mirror, she looks confused.

It's then as she stares into her own cerulean eyes that she stumbles into the room.

Bianca DeSousa is coughing up smoke in the girl's bathroom. Crouched over and heaving, the girl croaks out Katie's name. "Water," she breathes, "water."

Katie is shock-stricken for a split second, and then she is unzipping her purse on the ground in search of her water bottle. Before the numbness soaked in, she realizes, she probably would have denied the girl her desperate request.

That's how screwed up she had been.

Katie's arm isn't even extended half-way when Bianca snatches the bottle from her, wasting no time in pouring the water down her throat. She coughs as soon as the first gulp is through but continues to drink until the there isn't a drop left, sputtering and gasping the whole time.

"A-are you okay . . . ?" It's another one of those times when her voice sounds strangely different.

"Do I look okay?"

Katie's not surprised. Bianca snaps at everyone, especially people she actually has a reason to. And when something is bothering her, Katie's noticed that there is twice the venom.

"Sorry . . ." she murmurs, "I didn't – I mean . . . sorry."

The girl has slid to the ground beside one of the stalls now, and through lidded eyes, she glances up at Katie. At first, all countenance is guarded, and then slowly, an apologetic glint seeps into her irises.

"It's not your fault," she mutters, and then looks away.

But it is, is all Katie wants to say, You have no idea how much of it is. Instead, she settles for a hesitant, "What happened?"

A bitter smile plays on Bianca's lips. "Smoked," she states flippantly.

For a moment, Katie tries to gather what it is she's missed. Afraid of sparking on something that will make the girl snap, she doesn't point out that – the last time Katie checked, at least – Bianca was an avid smoker (of more than just nicotine).

Before Katie can consider whether or not to voice this, Bianca smirks and speaks up again. "I smoked for the first time in six months – and, let me tell you, cigarettes are one thing you can't just pick up again after a long time. I feel like I'm thirteen years-old again," she chuckles, and Katie watches as her sardonic sneer turns into a troubled grimace.

When Katie was thirteen, her parents wouldn't even let her sip energy drinks.

"You want one?"

Katie works to hide her stunned expression when she realizes the girl is pulling out two more cigarettes from her purse, but it's no use; Bianca is smirking at her. There's a sort of challenge locked between them.

"Sure," she says, and her voice feels like stone even if it comes out light and indifferent.

The taken aback look on the opposite girl's face sends a strange spark of satisfaction through Katie's veins. In the end, though, it's Bianca who delivers the most surprising line. "No."

"Wait," Katie edges, the hand that is reaching out flipping over in demand, "What?"

"You heard me." There is fire and amusement and an ounce of something that suggests a grave mood all in her eyes at once.

"C'mon."

"No."

The gaze locked between them stumbles and shakes, and a soft glaze pours over Bianca's face. Katie isn't sure if the girl is about to laugh or cry. "I'm sorry about everything that happened to you, Katie," Bianca whispers so low that her voice is barely coherent, though Katie can swear she hears the slightest of cracks.

"It's not your fault," she echoes the girl's words from the previous moment.

And this is when that truth finally sinks in between the two of them.


	6. Sun

I know, I know – this took me forever. But it is finished now. This is the last chapter.

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.

.

Time likes to numb around her. There are days when a minute drags itself out like an hour – as if each ticking second adds weight to her shoulders. And then there are the days that move in blurs like the scenery behind foggy windows in Washington.

Katie isn't sure which kind of time she prefers anymore.

She can't figure out whether it's her that's moving or the world. One of them, though, must be standing still.

Katie doesn't feel her hands – doesn't even feel her nerves – when she unfolds the acceptance letter to the University of Hawaii. The words greet her on the page like they know her, like they haven't been shipped out in masses to eighteen year-olds everywhere.

It is an early morning when the letter comes, dewy and muggy, and Katie slaps the paper and its envelope on the kitchen counter, grabs a pair of sneakers from her room, and takes off running down the block. She runs until her lungs feel ready to catch flame, her heart preparing to burst. Katie's vision is slanted again, blurring away at the edges.

But she doesn't stop, because there is a ghost chasing her.

She won't let it catch her. Not even if she has to run all the way to Hawaii.

.

.

.

Her sister is staring at something that isn't there when Katie finally staggers in through the front door.

Maya Matlin's tiny hands work on their own accord, aimlessly folding in the edges of the letter. She breathes steadily – like a machine. A Maybot.

"What are you running from, Katie?" She breathes.

"I don't know."

She'll figure it out once she's gone.

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.

.

"I – um – heard about your acceptance."

Somehow, the world gets quiet. Two girls are maneuvering their way through a high school hallway, alive with the chattering of freshman and the loud thoughts of seniors, and, still, things get quiet and soft.

"Yeah," she breathes.

Marisol Lewis swallows hard and nods, as if preparing herself for something. "Are you really going that far away?"

"I guess I am."

Another nod and another swallow, this time in the opposite order. Mar reaches a hand out to glide her fingers over the lockers beside them. "I'm sorry the year ended the way it did, Katie," she murmurs, soft like the touch of her fingertips over the metal, "For _us_, I mean."

"Me, too."

That line seems to take her former best friend by surprise. Katie sees the spark ignite. "So, is that it then?" the girl demands, harsher, Katie's sure, than she intends, "You're leaving, and our friendship ends?"

"Mar," Katie sighs, and she weighs her words carefully, because she's not sure how much pain one misstep can bring – for _both _of them, "I'm not the same person who you've been friends with all of these years. I don't really know how to be the friend you need anymore."

It startles Katie when a choked sob stumbles out from Marisol's lips. She stifles it with a purse of her lips. "I'm really going to miss you, Katie."

Part of her wants to say, _I'll miss me, too._

Instead, she whispers, "I'll call when I'm ready."

A tear runs down the face of her best friend once a long time ago in a distant dream. "You're still the best friend I've ever had. I hope you know that."

And Katie feels the sobs burning her throat.

"I'll call, Mar. I will."

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.

The next morning, a new letter shows up in the guidance office. Apparently, the University of Washington sends a copy of an acceptance letter to both your doorstep and your school.

She is called on to pick it up in the morning, and the room is swarming with flustered seniors and angry parents. Somehow, Degrassi's counselor, Mrs. Taylor, with her soft eyes and glossy lips manages to slip in a word with Katie as she hands her the packet. "I was a little worried about you, Katie, but it looks like you're going to make it through."

Katie swallows hard and nods, smiling only afterwards.

She stumbles her way out of the crowd and into the hallway, filled with younger classmen who are trying not to think about the time when they will be crammed into that tiny office in the east wing, fighting for places in line and in the world.

It's then that Katie notices her.

Bianca DeSousa is sitting, legs crossed, on a bench outside of the mad room. She smiles at a packet on her lap, and Katie swallows until her throat isn't so dry anymore.

"Where are you going to be in a few months?" She asks, her voice slightly hoarse as she takes a timid seat beside the girl.

Bianca looks up, her eyes light and proud. "I haven't chosen yet."

And, for a moment, all of the nerves and the tears fade away. Because if the girl sitting beside Katie can, after all this time, become the girl she never was, but the one she wanted to be, Katie's sure someday soon she'll be the girl she used to be.

.

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In the end, she chooses the place with the sun (and, what she tells her parents, the "really, fabulous journalism program"). Washington is much closer, they remind her, and she knows that – but that's not the reason she declines. Not anymore.

It's time the haze passes over. She's ready for the world to clear up.

And it will take time, she knows. It will take a lot of thinking – a task that doesn't sound too appealing right now. She'll have to love again; she'll have to make a call that she doesn't know how to start. She'll have to search a few names – a Torres and an Edwards and a DeSousa.

Katie will have to learn to remember the good things.

But as a city disappears behind her, a suitcase piled with sunscreen and bikini tops and illegal songs (but no more breath mints) weighing down on her lap, she knows this won't be the last of the Katie Matlin that still resides in Toronto.

One day, she will be back to pick up the rest of her.

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Thanks to everyone who took the time to read and review. It means a lot.


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